X-Men: Sleight of Touch
by Grieving Nocturne
Summary: A late-night poker session between mutants sets the stage for an elaborate misdirection ploy by the team's resident Cajun. But what greater gains does Gambit have his blackened eyes on? What's he fighting in secret for? And why? An ever-lonely Rogue can't shake her suspicions. But confronting the thief reveals answers she isn't prepared for. (Gambit/Rogue, with supporting cameos)
1. Chapter 1 - Card Tricks

Chapter One – Card Tricks

TWACK!

The slap of wax-coated plastic against the table cut through an otherwise silent room. A small table sat in the area, one of its legs a little shorter than the others. Huddled around the shaky little table, a group of men sipped cheap beer and guarded modest, little piles of poker chips.

TWACK!

Another playing card was roughly slapped onto the table. The hairy-armed dealer finished passing out the hands and chomped down on a burning cigar.

"Ante up, boys," he grunted.

The other men took their cards and eyed them.

"Y'know, mon ami," came a voice across the table from the dealer, "you keep throwin' dose cards down like dat, we gonna need a new table."

The dealer grunted, bearing his teeth.

"Somethin' wrong with how I deal, gumbo?" he muttered.

The other man, eyes glowing like red-hot coals in the dim light, merely shrugged and smiled.

"Hmph," the dealer said, scratching at his neck like he was looking for fleas.

"Go easy on Wolverine," piped a youthful, blond man sitting next to the dealer. "You know he has trouble expressing himself without punching."

The others snickered as Wolverine glared at the younger man beside him.

"Cute," he said. "Real cute, Popsicle."

"Oh, relax, Wolvie," the red-eyed man chuckled. "And lay off 'a Bobby. We just playin' around."

Wolverine grunted again as Iceman flashed a wide smile.

"If you boys wanna play," Wolverine said, spitting out puffs of cigar smoke, "make it Poker. Don't get your kicks by poking at me."

"All right, all right," a fourth, more calming voice came in, the words coated in a thick, German accent. "There is no need for such nastiness, meine Freunde."

Neatly, like a butler arranging silverware, the German placed his three-fingered hands onto his cards and arranged them in his grip.

"No nastiness implied, Kurt," the Cajun replied. "Just funnin'."

"Ja," the blue-furred man said. "And your definition of fun is just what I'm afraid of, Remy."

"You should try it, sometime," Gambit shot back at Nightcrawler. "It's healthy."

"I doubt it."

Wolverine shook his head as he fiddled with the chips in front of him. Whether that was an act of amusement or annoyance, no one really knew, although the latter would probably be a safe bet.

"We playing or not?" he said.

"Yeah, yeah," Iceman replied. "We're playing, old man."

The evening ticked onward, with the four gentlemen drinking and playing and losing small amounts of money to each other and making idle chitchat. After a few hours of Wolverine's cigar-chomping, a thick haze of tobacco hung stoically over the heroes' heads. Emboldened by a few rounds of beer, Gambit took the reins of conversation.

"Y'know, Wolvie," he began, slurring ever slightly, "if ya hate the criticism of your card-handlin' so much, you could always let me do the dealin'."

Wolverine snorted, cracking a half-smile. Iceman and Nightcrawler rolled their eyes, sensing the Cajun's bating for a response.

"Good idea," Logan scoffed. "Let's hand over a whole pile of potential grenades to the guy with the explosive fingers. See how that turns out."

"You _do_ realize ah can charge more'n cards, don't cha?" Gambit said, pinching a poker chip between thumb and forefinger. "Don't take much to send up dis whole place in pretty lil' flames."

"You sure you wanna light up that chip, Cajun?" Wolverine retorted. "Your _last_ chip?"

Gambit looked down at his end of the table, blinking. Wolverine was right. The tide of the cards had taken all but Remy's very last chip. Lady Fortune, it seemed, wasn't so sweet on the Cajun this night.

Or so it seemed.

Gambit took a long sip from his beer, the act masking the mischievous smile he couldn't help wearing on his face. By the time his drink had been lowered, the facade of a drunkard's confusion had returned to his face.

"Well, _shit_ , Remy!" Iceman drunkenly cackled, slapping his knees. "Down to your last hand already. Guess you never stopped chucking cards long enough to learn how to play them!"

Gambit put on an exaggerated frown, but inside, he was nothing but smiles.

 _Dat's right,_ he thought, gazing across the table at his inebriated colleagues. _Don't waste any thought on da fool._

Even the normally-hardy Wolverine was looking flushed and a little tipsy, though he hid it fairly well. Leaning aggressively over the table, he squared his eyes on Gambit.

"Well, Gumbo, what'll it be? You in or out?"

This was the question Gambit had been waiting all night for, and he was prepared.

"Deal me in, mon ami."


	2. Chapter 2 - Paperback Queen

Chapter Two – Paperback Queen

On the other side of the compound, a dim night lamp shone against the shapely shadows of a young woman undressing for bed. While one hand held tightly to a paperback novel perched before her nose, the other took to the task of peeling away her pants, shirt, socks, and was about to reach back and unhook a bra strap when she suddenly froze in place.

Slowly, her free hand joined the other and both cradled the trashy but enticing romance novel as the green-eyed Southern belle re-read the following passage.

 _Offering only his lips for apology, the handsome young soldier dipped Esmeralda down into the thick mud, ravenously running his fingers across her aching, responsive skin until it shone with a thin and glistening film composed of the wet earth and her own sweat. She wondered, as he roughly but respectfully entered her, whether the lubrication on her flesh was more comprised of the mud or her own desire?_

The lady's hands shivered a little, clutching the flimsy paperback. She felt a sudden heat on her cheeks as she read those lines again for the third time. Her imagination couldn't keep away the phantom sensation of a set of hands clutching onto her. Closing her eyes, the girl could just feel a set of fingers at her hair, each digit roughly swimming through her brown, Mississippi-grown locks and sweeping down across her snow white bangs to clutch her chin.

The girl slowly exhaled and closed the paperback, her mind on the invisible set of palms moving down her neck and sliding ever-softly down the curves of her body.

This girl, the girl who could know no touch, breathed excitedly as she imagined some handsome lover, like the one in those books, putting his hands on her like she was poetry, playing her skin like it was an instrument, clinging onto her in a way that she could feel it in her bones.

At this point, the girl was feeling heat on skin far beyond her cheeks, and dropped the book onto the floor in response. Eyes still shut in fantasy, she carefully peeled away the thick, yellow evening gloves she had been wearing and ran her bare fingers down over her stomach, as if searching for the hand of the phantom lover she could almost taste. Alone, though not in her mind, she imagined clutching onto his form, pulling him against her, gazing up into his strong, comforting eyes.

His glowing eyes.

Glowing?

Yes. Black like night and red like wildfire, burning into her.

The girl bit her lip hard and hooked her little pinky into the lacy waistband of her panties.

That's when the voice came at the door.

"Rogue?" asked a soft, polite, and female sound outside of the room.

The Southern belle gasped, snapped her eyes back open to reality, and quickly covered herself in a blanket before responding.

"Uh, yes! Sorry! Come on in!"

The door opened slowly and in walked a young, redheaded lady wearing a dark evening gown under a short jacket. A friend.

"I'm sorry," Jean Grey said, observing Rogue wrapped in the blanket. "I'm not intruding, am I?"

"Oh," Rogue said, looking down at her state and feeling a little silly. "Oh, no. Of course not. I was just gettin' myself ready for bed."

"I won't stay long if you want to get to sleep."

"It's okay."

"I haven't even looked at a clock since I've gotten back tonight."

"It's _okay_ , Jean. Come 'ere. Sit down and talk, if ya like. How was your date?"

Jean sighed and laughed softly, dropping down onto the bed next to Rogue.

"Is it still considered a date when you're married?" she asked.

Jean had recently become Mrs. Scott Summers, better known to all as Cyclops, after a far-too-damn-lengthy—Rogue's words—engagement, and the couple was still falling awkwardly into the roles of marriage.

"I wouldn't know," Rogue muttered, looking momentarily away. She noticed her hands were still bare and, feeling self-conscious, quickly grabbed at her gloves.

"But we had fun!" Jean continued, giggling and swaying on the bed. "Lovely dinner, lovely night!"

It was at this moment that Rogue began to notice that her friend seemed more than slightly inebriated.

"You okay, honey?" Rogue smirked. "You're lookin' a little flushed there."

"Hmm?"

"You just seem to have a few drinks in you, is all."

Jean realized the implication and laughed openly.

"I guess so!"

As she watched Jean giggle, it struck Rogue that she wasn't used to seeing the normally prim redhead in such a state. Well, good for her, Rogue decided. As far as she was concerned, everyone around the X-Mansion could stand to loosen up a little.

"Be sure to thank Remy for me," Jean added.

At that, Rogue narrowed her eyes and clenched her jaw.

"Thank him for _what,_ exactly?" she asked, fighting hard not to sound irritated or suspicious.

"For his late wedding gift."

"Late…wedding…gift?"

"That's what he called it. Two bottles of wine and a third of gin. He'd heard we were going out to celebrate tonight was quite insistent that we indulge ourselves."

"Uh-huh," Rogue said, flatly. Inside of her head, she was roaring loudly at the Cajun.

 _Remy, you damned swamp rat, what are you up to this time?_

She squeezed a tiny, gloved hand into a ball and pressed it into her leg.

"Anyway, Rogue," Jean continued, "the reason I dropped by is that I wanted to give you this."

"Huh? Oh."

Rogue had been taken so off guard with the unexpected visit that she hadn't even noticed the small book in Jean's hands.

"Did ya like it?" asked Rogue.

"It certainly was…vivid," Jean replied, brushing her thumb over the romance novel's illustrated cover.

Rogue involuntarily squeezed her thighs together beneath the blanket.

"Yeah, well," she mumbled, "I s'pose they can be a little…um…colorful."

"No, I _liked_ it, Rogue. I was just surprised. I wasn't expecting—"

"I think I understand."

But in her heart, Rogue didn't. She told herself not to be defensive, but she just couldn't help it. It was that ever-present little voice in her head. That voice that interpreted words in the least positive light.

 _Wasn't expecting._ What wasn't Jean expecting? For anything carnal and sexually-explicit to come out of Rogue's hands? That just because she couldn't touch another human being, she didn't have blood or skin or desire? That she held no interest in love? In _sex?!_

 _Stop it,_ Rogue told the nagging voice in her head.

She knew as well as anyone that Jean's words were innocent. Well-meaning. And besides, Rogue reminded herself, the poor girl was drunk. More than a little sloppy.

Rogue couldn't help furrowing her brow once more.

Sloppy. Courtesy of one Mister Remy LeBeau. Hmph.

 _Bastard,_ Rogue thought, curling her toes. _Son of a bitch never brought me bottles of wine._

"Rogue?" Jean said.

"Hmm?" the Southern belle responded, blinking and returning her focus to the scene.

"I said, are you all right? You looked a little upset."

"Oh, I'm fine. Pay no attention t'me, Jean."

It was a lie, though. In her head was still that twinge of bitterness, and underlying it all, the question of Remy's motives.

Rogue told herself to throw away that line of thinking. There was nothing charming or fair about condemning poor Remy as a schemer without so much as a thread of evidence. She exhaled, fluttered her pretty eyelashes, and with that, the Cajun was pardoned from all speculation.

Unfortunately for Rogue, though, he was as guilty as freshly-caught sin.


	3. Chapter 3 - Misdirection

Chapter Three - Misdirection

A small chorus of drunken cackles and chortles rolled around the poker table as Gambit cartoonishly held his hands out in surrender. Having lost his last hand of the night, the Cajun could only smile sheepishly as Wolverine claimed Gambit's final chip with great bravado.

"Yeah, yeah," Gambit responded, slouching in his chair and waving his palm through the smoke. "So you got lucky tonight."

"Try not to be such a sore loser, Gumbo," Wolverine jeered, drunk and showing his teeth.

"Ain't sore, Wolvie," Remy countered. "Just damn outta luck."

Nightcrawler leaned in and sympathetically dropped his hand on the Cajun's shoulder.

"Such is life, Remy," he laughed. "Such is life."

"Hmph," the Cajun said, rolling an empty glass in his hand and listening to the dripping ice cubes clink-clink-clank.

Of course, on the inside, Gambit was more than pleased. His red pupils glanced down at the five cards he had dropped in defeat. He was careful to keep his elbow pressed down on his forfeited hand. Wouldn't want one of the others to see that the twin Jacks he held easily topped the pair of eights Wolverine threw down. Still, feigning defeat was in Gambit's best interest.

"Well, gents," Remy announced, rising from his chair and waving a hand through the smoke, "looks like dis is where I turn in."

A round of jeers and boos came at the Cajun. Putting his hands up and tilting his back against the wall behind, Gambit laughed.

"Well, what mo' do ya expect from ol' Gambit tonight?" he cheerfully asked. "Ya already got all of mah money. And poker ain't much of a spectator sport."

Just then, as if fate was conspiring to assist in Gambit's departure, the door to the room swung slowly open and a figure filled the doorway.

"What…what's going on in here?" the male voice asked, coughing momentarily on the thick smoke rolling out from the confined space.

Leaping quickly on the opportunity, Gambit crossed the room and threw his arm around the neck of the confused, brown-haired young man in sunglasses.

"Y'just in time, Scott," Remy smirked, slapping the bewildered Cyclops on the shoulder. "Looks like these ol' boys are needin' a fourth for a little fun."

"A…fourth?" Cyclops mumbled, clearly disoriented.

 _Drunk,_ thought Gambit. _Good. So they made use of the gin._

"Close the door, would ya?" Wolverine barked from within. "You're letting out all the smoke!"

"And why is that bad?" argued Iceman.

"It's called _flavor,_ blondie! Flavor of the room!"

"Well, Logan's drunk."

"Not too drunk to show you your place!"

While the drunkards bickered at the table, Gambit quietly pulled Cyclops into the outside hall for a talk.

"You okay?" Gambit asked.

"Yeah," Cyclops mumbled. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just—"

"The gin, yeah, I know. You can thank me later."

"Wait…so there's…gambling going on in there?"

"What ya gunna do about it?" a drunk Wolverine shouted from the distance. "Tell yer _daddy?_ "

Cyclops was about to angrily reply when Remy pulled him back, latching on to the wrinkled lapels of Scott's dinner jacket.

"Listen," Gambit said, diplomatically, "how'd you like to do me one _hell_ of a favor?"


	4. Chapter 4 - Ever the Thief

Chapter 4 – Ever the Thief

Hours passed. The grand and iconic X-Mansion, asleep in the dead of night, sat in a complete hush, save for a few rooms below ground—the secret and combat-ready basement of Charles Xavier—that hummed with the overnight workings of computers and security systems. At one long stretch of the buried level of the Xavier mansion, sat an especially-sealed set of metal-plated doors that sealed in the shape of an oversized "X."

Beyond the doors stood what's commonly referred to as the X-Men's briefing room, the typical point of meeting of an outgoing team. The room was quiet, or at least for a moment before the X-shaped doors slid open with a hiss. The security system temporarily put to bed, a careful set of boots waltzed into the cold and empty steel room. The intruder, exhaling a beer-scented sigh of relief, leaned over the central computer panel. An exposed and extended index finger—connected to a hand coated in a thick black glove cut at the knuckle—moved downward to a keyboard and began performing a rhythm of keystrokes.

 _B-Beep!_

The console lit up with this cheerful bit of fanfare as the intruder's manipulation triggered the briefing room's central computer to launch.

 _Here we go,_ thought the man who slid through the chilly shadows.

As the operating system churned to life, the invading gentleman sighed once more and scratched his rough, unshaven chin.

"Such is life," Gambit muttered.

Working quickly, Remy pulled up the sources he required from the central system and ran inquiries on the interests relevant to him. The night had not been an easy one to coordinate for Remy, but yet he had managed to make it work. Timing, like most things in life, was critical, especially so tonight. And Remy was beyond delighted to see all of his carefully-manipulated dominoes fall so neatly into place.

First there was the Professor. Even Gambit wasn't so thickheaded to think he could pull a successful job over on the world's most powerful psychic when he was sharing the same roof. So when Gambit's plan first started to form in his thieving mind, the Cajun had the good sense to plan a strike date when the good professor would be far away on a personal vacation to Muir Island—thank the stars for the tempting eye of Miss Moira MacTaggert—and when his eyes, hell, all three of them, would be off of trivial things like a basement computer powering up in the dead of night.

Gambit blinked, sliding his pale lids over his midnight black eyes. The computer chugged and grumbled onward.

So Xavier was conveniently out of the way, but that still left a lot of important players on the stage. And Gambit's plot required a more or less vacant homestead to be awaiting him.

The computer continued to hum.

Gambit had selected this night to act because he knew that the X-Mansion would be mostly uninhabited, with most of its current residents away on personal business. Colossus was with relatives in Russia, Shadowcat was vacationing with friends, Jubilee was…eh…probably at some mall or something.

But there were still a handful of highly-skilled mutants bunking up beneath the roof of the X-Mansion this night, each of which was a potential blanket wetter if Remy hadn't planned this out right.

The poker game was a simple ploy. Get his fellow X-Men drunk and sleepy and distracted. Guard down. Jean was a greater worry to Gambit, being a psychic nearly as highly-sensitive as the Professor. But as luck would have it, Jean and Scott had plans of a romantic nature tonight, which was an opportunity if Remy ever saw one.

"Um, what is this?" Miss Grey had asked , raising an auburn-colored eyebrow at the sloppily gift-wrapped bottles of alcohol.

"Just a gift," Remy had replied, all teeth and smiles.

It was a long shot, but if the only psychic in the house managed to get good and proper drunk, then maybe her astral radar would fuzz out enough to give Remy an edge. At very least, he knew Cyclops was a lightweight, and with a few drinks in him, he'd be much less likely to keep a strict patrol of the facilities.

Heh. Of course, Fate dealt Gambit an extra hand by having Scott fumble into the poker smoke just as the Cajun was posed to make his exit. Remy had worried that ditching the party would draw suspicions from the boys, but by substituting Cyclops in his chair, he had the perfect escape.

"But I don't…play a lot of poker," the tipsy Cyclops had mumbled in argument. "I…I don't know."

"What's to know?" Gambit had countered with a grin. "You play one hand, you've played 'em all."

But even as he was persuading Cyclops into the smoky hole to gamble, Gambit had felt a twinge of guilt for it.

 _Poor bastard,_ Remy had thought. _Those boys're gunna squeeze every cent of pocket money outta him._

But with Scott's mind occupied by drink and body occupied with poker, another troublesome name could be crossed off from Remy's list. The last thing he needed was Cyclops keeping close tabs on the compound while he was making a move.

And those, aside, the only other warm body he knew beneath the roof was…

…her.

The sun was still in its afternoon descent, painting things a pretty orange, when Remy had come whistling down the halls, cracking his knuckles.

"What are ya'll so smiley about?" came a Mississippi sugar cane voice, as sweet as it was suspicious. Remy had stopped in his tracks and put up his hands. Having just delivered enough alcohol to Jean and Scott to ensure a hangover of seismic proportions, he was feeling a bit mischievous and smug. Of course, he couldn't exactly tell the sugar cane girl this. But he didn't want to lie either, so he gave a truthful answer to explain his smile.

"Me?" Gambit said to Rogue as she approached, hands on her hips. "I'm just overtaken by dat pretty face o' yours."

"Oh?" Rogue dryly responded, blowing a white strand of hair out of her eye line. "That so, Cajun?"

"I am absolutely _helpless,_ " the boy purred into her ear. "May havta bill you for my medical expenses. I'm sure I'll havta get this smile surgically removed from my face after lookin' at your sweet self, chère."

"Very cute."

"Not half as cute as—"

"You 'bout done, Remy?" Rogue sassed, pushing a gloved arm past him.

He was quick to catch her by the fingers and pull her close.

"C-careful!" she quickly said, half under her breath. "I ain't…I ain't covered."

Rogue, having spent the morning lounging quietly in the X-Mansion, wasn't as cautious in her clothing as usual. The Southern lady wore her typical, elbow-high green gloves, but other than that, she was donned in only a pair of worn jean shorts and a black tank top stamped with a circular X. Her longish, unruly hair was held up in a green tie, and the barelegged girl was prancing around barefoot.

She was far less cautious in her attire than usual. She was also dressed just how Remy liked her.

"Don't worry none 'bout me," Gambit whispered, pressing a cool hand to the thin material clinging to the small of her back. "I don't care if you bleed me dry."

Her cheeks flushing red, Rogue pulled away and smacked both hands into the boy's pale chest.

"That ain't funny!" she complained. "I've told ya a thousand times, ah—"

"And I told _you_ a thousand times, p'tite," Gambit countered, grabbing her again, softly, by the waist, "Dis boy's got _plenty_ of soul in him. You go on and drain what you want."

Rogue tried to pull away, but the Cajun had hooked a thumb through one of her frayed, denim belt loops. Rogue sighed and looked him in the eyes.

"Remy…" she began, before trailing off.

Gambit sensed her discomfort and quickly put on the mask of no-good lady chaser to lighten the mood.

"Y'know, chère," he grinned, "a kinetic charm'll work wonders on these clothes of yours. Could turn dat little shirt into a pile o' dust."

The girl rolled her eyes but gave up a soft smile.

"I'd slap ya if I could touch ya, swamp rat."

This she said sweetly, softly, and even shyly.

"It'd be my honor," the Cajun smirked.

Rogue clucked her cheek and pushed him away again.

"Leavin' so soon?" Gambit teased.

"Why?" she called back, not stopping as she marched away. "You need somethin' else from me?"

Remy chuckled, unable to resist.

"You could return my eyes, chère," he flirted. "Pretty sure yer holdin' em hostage in dat shirt."

To even his surprise, Rogue stopped and turned back to face him. With a playful smile, she glanced down into her cleavage and tugged at her straps.

"Sorry, Sugah," the girl cooed with a wink, "I think I'll be keepin' those warm here for now."

With that, she simply strolled away.

And Gambit could only smirk.

"Just be careful, chère," he whispered to the empty room. "Those are fragile."

Exhaling, Remy's thoughts turned back to the matter at hand. The night wasn't getting any younger, and the computer sitting deep in the mansion's belly wasn't moving any faster.

 _Come on…_

Remy further fiddled with the system, until at last the screen projected a bit of good news.

Bingo.

No scrap paper on hand, but no worries. The master thief easily memorized the address on the monitor and then started clacking again on the keyboard, erasing any digital trace of his presence.

 _Ah…computer hackin'. Where's da charm? Gimme the good ol' days when it was just a rusty lock and a bit of bent metal in a boy's hands._

A few minutes' more of magic, and the system powered softly down, drifting asleep to Gambit's lullaby.

Smirking, the thief cracked his knuckles and started inching away from the console when he heard it.

"Did you find everything you were looking for, Gambit?"

Remy froze, gritting his teeth.

Merde.

The tall, dark-skinned woman waiting behind him—noticeably next to a fire

alarm—held her arms crossed and her snow white eyebrows raised.

Storm.

 _Goddamnit._

He had expected Miss Ororo to be out of the house—hell—out of the continent for the week. What she was doing here, Remy couldn't figure. Didn't matter though. He was caught. So it was time to start acting fast.

Gambit shrugged, feigning a nonchalant bravado, but the failure of his escape was tattooed all over his body language.

"Evenin', Stormy," he dryly greeted her. "Kinda late to be sneakin' up on a guy."

"Kind of late to be robbing us blind."

"Would you believe sleepwalkin'?"

She responded only by tightening the cross of her arms.

"All right, look," he whispered, looking down in disappointment. His voice wavered in a rare moment of vulnerability. "This ain't exactly what it looks like."

"It never is," Storm countered, bluntly. "I believe that was one of the first lessons on thieving you imparted on me, Remy."

Gambit exhaled. Nothing so annoying as having an ex-student spoon feed you your own lesson plan. Then with a grunt, Gambit roughly peeled off his worn, leather overcoat and threw it into Storm's hands.

"Don't believe me? Check for ya'self," he muttered. "Empty pockets."

Storm, unfazed and unconvinced, handed the garment back without inspection, all the while wearing a very suspicious face.

"There are other ways of moving valuables out of a room, Gambit," she remarked, glancing back at the powerful computer behind them. Moving to it, she placed a single finger on the main console. "Still warm."

"Fine," Gambit countered. "Check it out. Inspect it. Hell, call Forge—wherever he is tonight—wake him up an' have him take a look. Bet you my last dollar he won't find a trace. I'mma damn fine thief, Stormy, but you know big level hacking ain't exactly my area of expertise."

"I know a few things. First of all, from what I hear, your last dollar already went home with Wolverine in a poker game."

"We're all entitled to a bad streak sometimes."

"Second, you're right. You're not proficient enough take anything out of the Professor's system without leaving a trace. But that also means, you're smart enough not to try. So how about we stop playing guessing games, Remy, and you tell me what you're really doing in here."

Gambit turned away from her.

"…ain't none of yer business."

"Remy—"

"I already told you I ain't taken anything from here. Only taken a look."

"Information?" she guessed, crossing her arms. "Is that what you're after?"

"Oui."

"And it didn't occur to you to try a library?"

He couldn't tell if she was joking or not. That was the funny thing about

Storm. Everything she said tended to come across in that same tone of grand elegance, whether she was asking for the truth or just for you to pass the peas.

"Libraries I've seen don't exactly stock their shelves with the readin' I'm after," Remy explained.

"I see. Then why not go directly to the Professor for help?"

Gambit was silent for a moment.

"…..."

"Look, whatever troubles you're facing, I'm sure that Charles would—"

"This ain't for me."

The night hummed on.


	5. Chapter 5 - Frustrations at Sunrise

Chapter 5 – Frustrations at Sunrise

Buildings lumbered in the distance. Even at this hour, scarcely before dawn, the streets pulsed with the sour music of tires on pavement and engines choking on.

The roofs were a lonely place.

Gambit thought about this as he rolled his thumb over the grooved tuning wheel that brought his binoculars into better focus.

 _Three men, armed, rotating their guard up there._

Remy had gotten lucky. _Damn_ lucky, and he knew it. Not just that he found his way here. That was the small victory. The big battle, the unforeseen war, was Storm. She had stood between him and his purpose, and somehow, he had slipped past her battlegrounds.

"What was that?" she had said in the basement, eyeing him. "What did you call me?"

"The battlefields of war, Stormy," Gambit had said, with a sigh. "You're Wounded Knee placed up on heels. With less bloodshed and trenches of—"

"I suggest you keep your eyes off of my trenches, Remy."

Gambit sighed again, heavy with the night's toll.

"Dat wasn't what I meant."

"I know," she said, suddenly smiling. "You're not the only one who can tease."

"…"

"Look, why don't you tell me what's really going on here?"

Gambit glanced up and spied the time displayed from the wall of the dim basement.

"Would love to, Stormy. Really would," he said. "But there's a dawn out there gettin' ready to crack. I've gotta beat it to the punch."

Miraculously, she stepped aside. No more pestering or questioning. No attempt to detain or persuade him out of whatever the hell he was planning to do. She just stepped aside.

There was something in her eye, Gambit noted as he exited the room and then the entire compound. A look of sympathy and understanding.

Maybe, Remy told himself, maybe she saw something in his manner that told her this was important. Something he had to do.

Or maybe Storm was just exhausted and wanted to end this nonsense in favor of a soft bed. Gambit couldn't blame her for that.

Whatever the reason, here he was, huddled against the wind on the roof of an office building, following the changing of the guard across the way.

He knew he was damn lucky.

He also knew if he was gunna pull this thing off, he had to be quick. The sun was on its way to break up the night, and Gambit had neither the time nor the room for missteps.

So he had to do this thing, and he had to do it now.

"Well," Remy whispered to himself, reaching into his coat to pull out a single playing card, a well dog-eared Queen of Hearts, "no time like the present."

Another second of night was spent, and the Queen began to glow a tremendous pink.

Back at the X-Mansion, dawn was being met with itchy frustration from at least one room. Lightly asleep but unsettled, Rogue rolled from side to side, pressing her shoulder blades against the mattress and thrashing her legs around the bed sheets. Turning roughly onto her tummy, she perched her pink-clad bottom upward. Dressed in only a pair of faded cotton—but somehow quite clingy— panties, Rogue stirred in her sleep. Unconscious, she pressed her hips hard against the mattress. She slid against it, forced its taste upon her skin. This, sadly, did nothing but further frustrate her.

But in her mind, she dreamt.

"Oh!" the Rogue of her dreams exhaled, flushed and breathy. "You _do_ know how to hold a lady in your arms!"

The man in her visions, silent with dark hair and darker eyes, clutched her sternly by the shoulders and began tasting her collarbone.

Rogue's eyes rolled back and her knees buckled.

She felt the zipper sewn into her evening gown quickly plummet, mercifully so, down her spine. Wiggling her hips, she shook the garment down to her ankles and stepped out of the dress.

The dark and silent man clasped her thin wrists and clutched them together over her head. Clenching onto an excited, hopeful breath and holding in her lungs with anticipation, Rogue began to bob and sway beneath the man's direct yet gentle grasp.

Slowly, the man pulled Rogue's wrists upward, forcing her to perch up on her tiptoes. Her bare feet squirmed against the soft ground beneath her and a bead of sweat began to form on her pretty brow.

"Whatever ya plan to do to me…" she murmured, shy, beet red, but ultimately captivated, "…go ahead an' do it…I won't…I won't fight you…"

Responding only with a nod, the man slid a hand around her waist, lightly brushing her curves. With watery eyes, Rogue watched as the man's long fingers hovered centimeters away from her womanhood. He drew closer, but did not touch. Each moment he moved was a lifetime of aching agony for the girl, until she was driven half-mad. Once he stretched a finger toward her quivering body, but stopped before making contact between her legs, instead moving up and tapping on her navel. Swearing inside her head and biting roughly on her lip, Rogue was ready to just reach down and rip off her own lingerie right there, unable to withstand this foreplay any longer.

Looking up into the man's dark eyes, she nearly cried, hurting with stimulation.

"Aren't..." she whined, breathing heavy, "…aren't you gunna…"

Stopping her quaking voice with a finger to her lips, the gentleman put on a crafty smile and a wink.

Then, as the man moved his hand forward to meet the girl's throbbing, moist frame, as Rogue arched her back and prepared every inch of her flesh to be consumed…

…she was awoken by a shrill alarm.

Opening her eyes to find her teeth sunk into a pillow and her thighs sunk into another.

Silencing the alarm with an adorably violent fist, Rogue sat up in bed, sweaty, and looked at the empty reality of her room.

"Damn you," she said to the day.


End file.
